vitae benefaria
by faeriefaerie
Summary: The Inquisitor is young. Solas is decidedly less young. [Solas PoV, character study ft. nb Lavellan and the slowest burn in Thedas]
1. only the beginning

The prisoner was... young.

No; simply younger than he had anticipated, Solas amended, as he was escorted out of the makeshift dungeon.

His few moments with the mark - and the person attached to it, by extension - had been too brief for his liking, but nevertheless informative. The mark's host had been, of course, wholly unconscious the entire time. It was hardly fair of him to make assumptions. Perhaps he shouldn't have anticipated anything at all.

He stopped his escort just as they turned to leave, deciding to risk requesting more information. Surely they knew more of the prisoner's background? Perhaps it could prove useful in determining the probable effects of the rift, or its origins?

The agent (human, armed, a scout in appearance but more likely a spy in practice) returned momentarily with a single sheet of plain parchment, clearly a hurried copy of whatever ledgers the Nightingale (spymaster) kept for themselves. He gave its contents - a single paragraph - a glance over and politely requested the rest of the report. From beneath her helmet the woman gave him a long, measured look, then just as politely ordered him to remain in his assigned quarters until the Seeker could grant him an audience.

So that was all of it, then.

"Short-lived even in description," Solas murmured, rereading the entire five sentences that made up the known history of the prisoner with the glowing palm.

In short: Elf, Dalish, Hunter, known member of a clan in the northern Free Marches: Lavellan.

Of course it couldn't have been a human who unwittingly held the key to the Breach in the sky. No, it had to be a Dalish elf, misplaced pride and misremembered history written into the skin of their own face. The irony would only have been more cutting had they been a mage, but Solas knew to be thankful for small mercies.

So be it. Elf they were. Dalish they were. It changed little, in the end.

The elf was not likely to be awake soon, in any case; though he was relatively certain they would come to eventually. The Nightingale and the Seeker had gone so far as to hold them captive in the most defensible building they could spare. Were the situation any less dire he might have laughed: high security and a dedicated detail for their most likely suspect, a defenseless elven youth; not mage nor even cleric nor even human, who - luckily or unluckily - could not protest the arrest nor bear witness to the crime due to a damnably convenient lack of unconsciousness.

There was very little anyone here knew of the situation at all, in fact. It wasn't to his surprise that he was - not so much neglected, but rather effectivevly sequestered and forgotten once he had not proven an immediate threat. The scrambling remains of the Chantry had higher priorities than barking at a lone apostate. Between the Divine's death, the demons, and the triage, there weren't warm bodies enough to spare for asking questions.

That was fine.

He knew the Breach was not the Dalish elf's doing - or, at least, not their design, as they had the least to gain from the ensuing mayhem. He knew the nature of the magic that had caused the Breach (but not the goals of the creature harnessing it). Most importantly, he knew that the matter of sealing the Breach was not yet an impossible task. With the existence of the mark, a sliver of hope remained; though he did not know exactly how its host came to possess it. And while it posed a significant threat to its host's life, the effects could be quelled under the right circumstances; and the right circumstances would occur.

He would make sure of it. The mark could not be lost.

The spymaster's report he folded up, and slid into his sleeve. There were - a myriad of things, centuries of information lost, that would be necessary to rectify this disaster, and too much of it was completely unavailable to anyone - any shared effort these people might attempt - who might try.

Except through himself.

He briefly considered feeding its agents information from afar, and immediately discarded the idea. Influencing the direction of such a large effort at any distance would be too slow, and laborious. Time was of the essence.

Then he would have to give it to them personally. It would be an exercise; his presence would be useful, but the how and why was key; too much and he would cast suspicion upon himself, too little and he might inspire more doubt than be of use. But it would offer him an unparalleled advantage if only he played his hand well.

Fortunately, he had always excelled at the Game.

All was not lost. Not yet.

Solas sat down on the weathered cot, not bothering to set his pack aside, and closed his eyes. The path to the desired end was always present, if difficult to discern, but he was a patient man. Seeing it only demanded that he keep his eyes open. The Breach would be sealed. The tragedy would be undone.

He was one foot in the fade when the high shriek of a demon cut through his meditation.

* * *

"Quickly! Before more come through!"

He took their wrist without preamble. Under his grasp the muscle tensed at his grip, but ultimately did not fight him - nor notice the steady stream of magic he bled into their palm.

First, preservation. In the cacophony of the tether forming, he addressed the mark's degenerative effects.

He carved a command out of the errant Fade, tugging at the strands until the mass of it came to heel.

Stop.

In the space between one breath and the next, the spread of magic that would have led its host to a slow death withdrew, curling into itself. He shut it back behind a compound demand - contain, slow - and sealed its exit behind. A temporary solution - the mark would truly only ever answer to none other but what put it there, and he was too weak to fully convince it otherwise - but it would suffice, for now.

Next, direction. The host was... cut off entirely from the Fade. (Unfortunate.) That would have to be accounted for. He pressed his spell further. The rift flexed, constricting, coursing to the command of the key; he felt when the younger elf began to grasp it, ragged edges of the mark re-tailored for their very non-mage lack of senses to master. Once he was sure they could feel the tear in the veil - translated to the scent of ozone, a prickle of unease at the back of their neck, a static itch in the skin of their fingers, as obvious and exaggerated as he could make it - he withdrew.

There was a horrible, anxious moment as they fumbled. Slender thread from palm to fade thinning rapidly and warped so far as if to disappear altogether, and the rift contracting rapidly in preparation to tear even further. Then, they reached -

\- and the rift imploded neatly, lesser demons withering instantaneously without the fade to anchor them.

His breath escaped him in a rush, condensing in the frigid air as a puff of cold relief. The first hurdle, cleared.

Wordlessly, he released the other elf's slender wrist.

They retracted the appendage immediately. The far-off Breach pulsed; visibly their hand glowed just as brightly, but the mark no longer spat violent arcs of energy. Their eyes narrowed. They had noticed. "What did you do?" they demanded.

"I did nothing," he replied, lightly, gesturing. "The credit is yours."

Some of the sharpness in their visage bled away at that, replaced for an instant by confusion. And then for longer, by a grimace. "You mean this," the elf, Lavellan, said. Their distaste for the mark was difficult to miss, even under their consternation.

Yes, that. He suppressed the urge to sigh. "Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky," he explained, patiently, opting to inform rather than contest their sentiment, "also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake..."

Rifts. In the plural. All of which demanded closing, not least of all the Breach - and only one mark capable of doing it, on their hand. As the implication of his words began to sink in, several emotions flickered rapidly past their eyes.

Anger. Fear. A trace of despair. Resignation?

"...And it seems I was correct," he finished.

Their jaw clenched.

Settling on anger, then.

"Meaning it could also close the Breach itself," The Seeker stepped in, half a question meant for him and half a statement of fact for Lavellan. She shot a meaningful look at him, and then at her (former? Were prisoners allowed personal arms?) prisoner.

Under the taller woman's scrutiny Lavellan's expression shuttered, smoothing imperfectly into a carefully polite skepticism rather than a thinly concealed tempest. No doubt that behind the facade, their thoughts were churning. The more they learned of the situation the more trapped they became. If they weren't already convinced they needed to start running in the opposite direction as fast as physically possible they were obviously nearing it.

He felt a wisp of sympathy for them. Their confusion and pain was a consequence of his miscalculation. A wholly unnecessary suffering.

"Possibly," Solas replied, wanting to be kind - but not unrealistic. Breach would respond to the mark, but to what extent had yet to be seen. Unfounded optimism had its own wealth of potential harms. Loath to sound too discouraging, however, he made himself smile. "It seems you hold the key to our salvation."

Lavellan said nothing, and only raked their eyes over him another time.

Their shoulders betrayed it. They were too relaxed to be anything but forcibly held that way. But the strain in their neck and white-knuckled hands betrayed their mounting discomfort; the Seeker especially they were wary of, and second to her, Solas himself. Where they had practically thrown themselves into the fray only moments before, thinking nothing of fighting alongside unknown allies, all the subtle signs had returned afterward - hinting at their mounting distress.

But, well. They were a hunter. Skirmishes and blades were probably a singular comfort to them in the storm of magic and politicking that sought to buffet them now.

Not conspicuously, but - in a way - Lavellan shrank from the world, as if they felt themself vulnerable from all directions. As if they were still half-convinced any passing templar wouldn't simply run them through at the sight of their fade-touched hand, or undecided whether the sky could be trusted to stay over their head anymore.

Tethras - ever with his finger on the state of affairs - turned the elf's attention to himself, before they could withdraw fully into their inner turmoil. A good call. A reserved character was not a terrible thing, but not at the cost of internalizing so much ire.

He contemplated his position. Shame that his own person seemed to inspire such a powerful wariness in Lavellan. Whatever opinion they had of him, and any probable dislike, was probably magnified by the lack of vallaslin on his face. He had witnessed enough of the Dalish clans' misplaced pride firsthand to make an estimation. But there was no use in making a distasteful acquaintance of himself. Besides, he was not only not Dalish, but a clearly capable apostate. An unknown entity to all. That reasons alone might be reason enough for them to cling to caution.

Or prejudice. As it were.

He shook himself out of his thoughts just in time to see the Seeker make a face, undoubtedly at one of the dwarf's offhand jests. Lavellan glanced furtively between the two, now - forgetting some of their anger as they read between the lines. Good. Better that, than dwelling on -

"Are you with the Chantry?" they asked, suddenly. The question was for Tethras. The dwarf gave them an odd look, and the elf frowned, gauging his reaction. "Or...?"

Solas chuckled, half-startled by the query. There was a definite enmity between the Seeker and Tethras, but it was a well-worn path; it was obvious they knew each other better than either liked. Lavellan had reached an incorrect - and ironically, optimistic - conclusion of that familiarity, however. The Chantry was not so inclusive. And Tethras had as many reasons to eschew it as Lavellan themselves. "Was that a serious question?"

The look on Lavellan's face was fully unappreciative, but the effect was neatly ruined by their shivering. Their jaw clacked together - but only once, before they resolutely locked their jaw to prevent the noise.

Angry, and stubborn.

Tethras smiled, all pearly whites and barely concealed antagonism. "Technically, I'm a prisoner. Like you," he drawled, magnanimously, and made a show of adjusting his gloves - just long enough for it to border on insulting. Out of the corner of his eye Solas saw the Seeker's lips thin. The glower she leveled at him in return for it was practiced; contempt held almost entirely in the eyes.

Remarkable, how easy it was for himself to be looked over in present company. It suited him. Being seen as un-noteworthy was entirely amiable to his goals. He was already a lone mage amongst templars; one the most coincidentally applicable and yet obscure field of expertise necessary to be allowed to walk (relatively) free, despite the obvious sin of being an apostate.

As long as enough individuals decided that his help was more valuable than his persecution, his plans could proceed.

The Seeker made a noise of disgust, and walked off, leaving Tethras to savor getting his way.

"My name is Solas, if there are to be any introductions," he said, taking the opportunity. Then he joked, because he found it funny, "I am pleased to see you still live."

Obviously. The world would have been doomed twice over if they had not.

"He means," Tethras piped up helpfully, still grinning, "'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'"

Ah, humor. The language of the weary.

Lavellan considered him more carefully this time. Their gaze flickered — between a human, a dwarf, and a bare-faced elf. Desperate company for desperate times, he thought, guessing that they were thinking the same. Privately, he agreed.

The blatant wall of distrust lowered by a fraction - just enough to let the smallest glint of amusement slide past.

"Then I owe you my thanks," Lavellan decided. Their head bobbed into a shallow bow, indicating gratitude. Not quite polite.

Solas inclined his head. It was acceptable.

* * *

The snow was thick, but packed over old ice. The four of them trekked quickly, and efficiently, trailing the Seeker's lead - following the river when the path was lost to damage, finding it again in hard stone steps carved into the slopes. The Breach continued to spit all manner of things down, heedless of the destruction it rained down the mountainside; every fallen soldier darkened the shadow upon the Seeker's brow.

Snow gathered on his shoulders, clinging to the coarse fur that lined the collar of his vest. He brushed the flakes aside and chased the chill from his fingers with his breath.

"Cold?" Tethras asked.

"Yes," Solas admitted. "But nothing I haven't survived before."

"Magic helps, doesn't it?" Tethras observed, following Lavellan's light steps with his own. The dwarf was more agile than he let on. "If you weren't a mage, I'd imagine all the heat would escape through the top of your head."

"It does," he informed them, because the others were listening even if they did not look back, and allowed himself a smile.

"What, the magic, or your head?"

He chuckled. "More the toes, actually."

Tethras knew he was being cryptic. The archer only sighed, however, and allowed it. "What is it with elves and bare toes?" he shook his head. "At least one of you has sense."

Lavellan paused almost imperceptibly on the next step, then huffed. And kept moving.

The telltale glow of wraiths caught his eye just as they found the river again. "Demons ahead!" Solas warned, raising his staff at the same moment Tethras reached for his peculiar crossbow.

Looking up, the Seeker spotted the danger as well. A glance back as she acknowledged their positions, then she was advancing with her weapons drawn. Tethras lingered near him, loading ammunition on higher ground, and Solas began to ready a buffer of mana. Lavellan drew arms last - daggers sliding free slowly as they watched the rest of them choose their places, before drifting just behind the Seeker's defense.

No rift nearby. But plenty of demons barring the way, and enough that it would take some doing to get through. He threw a barrier over the Seeker just as she entered their opponents' line of sight.

At the last moment - so quickly it couldn't have been anything but instinct - Lavellan stepped inside the radius, picking up a barrier of their own from the same cast.

Like moths to a flame, the movement of magic attracted the closest of their adversaries.

The group fell fast into a system. Tethras and he in the back, debilitating at long range, while the two with blades cut down the affected. The wraiths in particular gave them trouble; he grimaced as Lavellan suffered a gash to the shoulder for hesitating, thrown by the lack of resistance their daggers met on the adversary.

When the wraith threw them to the ground with a bolt of magic, one of their weapons went clattering across the river's surface.

He stretched out his hand and the bright blue glyph of a barrier lit around them. Another turn of his wrist and the offending demon was frozen through, shards stuck thick through its form. It let out a shriek, twisting in its cage - the magic, not so much the physical ice - and Solas watched as Lavellan rolled to their knees, bracing for injury as it began to pull free.

The Seeker appeared immediately at their side. With her jaw in a hard line she plunged her blade into the approximate location of the wraith's chest, burying it up to the hilt.

In one smooth movement the sword cut away. The wraith fragmented around the steel, breaking with the ice as it shattered. Lavellan slumped minutely, in relief - and roughly let themselves be dragged to their feet by the Seeker's hard grip on their forearm. The warrior made a motion with her shield, ushering the elf behind her as a demon of rage bore down; and as more wisps began to congregate to them Lavellan stood near, turning to cover the Seeker's back with the remaining dagger in their good hand.

He cast another barrier - redundant, but for security's sake. As the pattern fell again, centered over them, the rogue turned their head just so - and stepped back to include the Seeker within it, blanketing the both of them in the spell.

Solas furrowed his brow, and busied himself with entombing the rest of their adversaries in ice.

Eventually, the field was clear. The Seeker helped Lavellan to the riverbank, where the elf slid down into an exhausted heap.

"Varric," she called, authoritatively. Tethras did not move, but looked at her from where he stood. She pinned him with a flat sternness, turned the look at Lavellan long enough to make her point, then moved on to survey the battlefield.

Tethras sighed, eventually, and ambled down from his high ground. Solas trailed a short distance behind him and bent, to retrieve the dagger that had fallen aside in the skirmish.

Solas considered the weapon. Solid, but nothing of quality, and unevenly weighted; probably picked up on the field out of necessity. It was barely a pair with the one in Lavellan's hand. There was nothing magical about it in the least.

Then how...?

"Here, kid." Tethras produced a vial from a belt pouch, and nudged it into Lavellan's hand. Jerkily, the hand that had been clamped over their shoulder released its hold and took the potion from him; the elf got that far before stalling again, staring blankly as Tethras mimed drinking out of it with a patience born of experience.

Shock, he determined of their sluggishness, watching their torn shoulder pull and weep blood as they moved. He had had the impression that they would be hardier than this. Well; the stress of their situation likely compounded on their injuries.

Lavellan gagged.

"I know, tastes like shit," Tethras sympathized, clapping a hand over their back. They cringed, and he did not do it again. "The aftertaste is definitely the worst part, personally speaking. You've never had potions before?"

"I've had potions," the elf refuted, coughing. They regarded the vial with some horror. "What the hell is this?"

"A potion," said Solas. Lavellan gave him a watered-down version of an incredibly black look before he went on, "Laced with far more lyrium than necessary, I suspect. Chantry supply?"

Tethras made a vaguely affirmative noise.

Lavellan put their nose to the potion, and recoiled. "Ugh," they observed, eloquently. "It's sharp. Like lightning - that's lyrium?" They scowled down at the potion, and consequently the mark on the hand closed around it.

Ah. Sensitivity to magic. A result of his doing, no doubt.

That might explain it.

The dwarf reached out and swiped a finger on the rim of the vial, then dabbed it delicately on his tongue. "Well, I don't know about liquid lightning," said Tethras, raising an eyebrow, "but it is a little strong."

"Generally, adding lyrium to potions would strengthen its effects... up to a point," Solas observed, "though beyond that it is more likely to cause a headache. Perhaps the quality of the potion is to blame," he concluded, breezily. No need to complicate the matter further.

Instead of replying, Lavellan tipped the rest of the potion back. "Never mind," they muttered after, valiantly managing not to gag again. "It's just weird." They looked at their shoulder. Nearly healed, now, from being attacked by a demon. "All of this shit is weird."

"Kid," said Tethras, pocketing the empty vial and handing them another one, "You're telling me. Hold on to that for next time." Lavellan watched his back recede as he wandered off to salvage bolts, with a slightly scrutinizing expression.

Solas took a half-dozens steps in the opposite direction, and might have forgotten entirely about the dagger if he did not pause to shift his staff to his other hand, and found that he could not. He remembered the weapon, then, and stopped. Then he turned around again.

"...completely. Demons on fire. Potions making my gums itch..." Lavellan was muttering, under their breath to themselves, gaze distant, before realizing he was standing there. Their eyes flickered up to his, wide - then caught on the dagger, and narrowed.

"Yours?" he offered.

Lavellan looked balefully at the thing. They said, succinctly, "Yes," while looking as if they wanted to say something entirely different. Another short glance at him, and the dagger was lifted from his hand.

With some effort, it was returned to its sheath.

"Why does he call me that?" the elf said, breaking a short-lived silence. Solas paused. Lavellan was not looking at him, but solidly in Tethras's direction, where the archer was pulling a bolt free of the frozen river. "'Kid.' Do I come off as so incompetent?"

"It is a nickname," he replied, offhandedly. "You are young."

"Not that young," Lavellan muttered.

"Younger," he amended.

They scoffed. "I'm not a child. He can't be that much older. None of you are," they asserted.

Solas attempted to catch the laugh before it could escape, and failed. Lavellan stared openly as he chuckled; so did the Seeker, looking up from a demon's remains at the sound.

"My apologies," he said eventually, noting the drawn line of their lips. "I did not mean to offend you."

They regarded him with a deep skepticism. "You can't be that old."

He smiled.

"If we're ready," the Seeker interrupted, walking up - apparently deciding that, if they had time to share jokes, it was time to move on. There was something in her hands. "Here."

She offered a mass of cloth to Lavellan, which revealed itself to be a hooded coat. A souvenir from the fallen. The elf immediately put it on and drew the fabric over their head, grateful to spare their shoulders and ears from the biting cold. Concern for the prisoner?

Or for their only hope of putting things right?

Tethras joined them moments later, with a fistful of salvaged crossbow ammunition. "Oh, that's new," he remarked, appraising Lavellan's new apparel. "Looking comfortable. And desperate, but I think that's inevitable once you start picking stuff up off of dead people. Trust me." The tone of his voice took a wry turn. "I would know. You don't spend thirty years in Kirkwall without learning a few things."

Lavellan smiled neutrally, eyes half-hidden behind the fold of their hood. "Really."

Cassandra rolled her eyes and took point.

* * *

The Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"What's left of it," Tethras muttered, in an undertone.

Lavellan stared.

Solas watched them take it all in: the scorched earth, devoid even of snow to soften the scene. The figures caught mid-terror, immolated into grotesque standing sculptures. Enormous crags rose from the blackened ground, pulsing with the same brilliant, crackling green as the mark. Above it all, the Breach loomed.

The destruction was total. Overwhelming.

The veil grew thinner as they drew closer to the site of the explosion. By the time they reached a tunnel that would bypass the last of the crags - once a hall, but with no Temple and no walls, it was no longer - the very atmosphere was heavy with the suggestion of the Fade. Spirits pressed in throngs against or else fled from the paper-thin divide, frantically mirroring the destruction, the fear, and every individual recollection of death that lingered in the ground, remembering forever -

A ringing clang broke the silence, startling them all.

As a group, they looked down; at Lavellan's feet lay the remains of a templar. A full set of plate armor - hollow of its owner, but for ashes and scorch marks. The elf stepped back with a jerk, throat bobbing, and the ruined helm clattered on the stones with another metallic tinny.

"Well, that's ominous," the dwarf said, in a close enough approximation of cheerfulness.

Lavellan's jaw unclenched. "Sorry," they managed.

The Seeker made to say something, then thought better of it. "This way," she said, sidestepping the armor.

Solas forced himself to straighten as they descended the steps. There was a wrongness, a stain on this side, like he had not felt in some time. His unease only grew when they entered the ruins proper. With so many spirits crowding the area, it was no wonder they poured out of the rifts in such numbers. They were funneled through by force, pushed through by the shifting masses, or expelled by the pulses that emanated from the Breach, only to be thrown out of other rifts further away.

The mark on Lavellan's hand began to crackle before anything came into view, and they looked at it with displeasure. But by now they all knew what that display meant. Sure enough, an enormous rift, larger than all the ones they'd faced combined, sat directly below the Breach.

A single look told him that it was as volatile as it appeared. It fed on the energy that cascaded from above, and fluctuated - as had been observed previously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lavellan turn away from the mark as it spat out another blinding shower of sparks.

He craned his neck and tried to see past the rift, the shifting lights, and into the yawning maw of the tear; but there was so much of the ambient Fade filtering through that it was impossible to gauge just what part it opened into. Or what it would take to close the opening.

The veil was less than cobwebs here. At present there were no demons - but that was no relief.

If no lesser demons were coming through a rift that large, it could only mean there was something even larger in the way.

The Nightingale and her reinforcements arrived behind them. A sinking weight settled in his gut as her agents began to file in; dozens of soldiers, armed to the teeth. The troops took places around the perimeter, weapons gleaming, but in his eyes they appeared as little more than mottled pebbles, bled of color and significance against the immensity of the Breach.

Moving bodies, no better than bait.

"I'm assuming you have a plan to get me up there," he heard Lavellan say, uncertainly. The glow of the rift cast their complexion in a disturbing pallor.

Cassandra's lips thinned, betraying her determination to make a move - and every option she entertained, he knew, would be indescribably unwise. It would get them all killed. Or worse, it would do nothing.

A deadly calm bubbled up from the recesses of his mind.

"No," he decided, and was glad when they stopped to listen. He desperately hoped that things would be simpler than he feared, not worse. Better informed lies than tragedy brought about by ignorance. When he turned, the Seeker's gaze was both a question and a challenge; he met it, unflinching. "This rift was the first, and it is the key; seal it, and perhaps we seal the breach."

Please.

He needed them to believe him.

They did. To her credit, the Seeker gathered herself immediately. "Then let's find a way down."

A short wave of relief overcame him, then passed. He would find time to be sorry for abusing their trust in him later.

Much, much later.

* * *

As he expected, he was the only one unsurprised when the Pride demon appeared.

In the ensuing mayhem his barriers bloomed like quickened flowers. One after the other, chasing moving targets. Fire and ice enveloped the lesser demons that followed in the greater's wake whenever there was time to cast something else. It was easy to shape magic here, thin as the veil was, but for all the speed he gained for it it was still not fast enough -

He was still so weak. One day he might look back on this moment, and laugh.

So long as they succeeded.

"The rift-" he said, spying fatigue in the demons' assault. Lavellan was nowhere to be seen; but the eye of the Seekers was easier to spot. He cast a barrier over her contingent, a group of shield-bearers that were taking the brunt of its physical blows, keeping its attention from the archers. "Seeker! The rift!" he shouted, and her head snapped around.

Cassandra threw off the demon's next attack and Pride faltered, fell to its knees. Agents rushed in to press the advantage. She sucked in a breath. "Now! Seal the rift!"

A blast of energy emanated from the Breach, deafening. Solas tore his eyes from the sky and searched for a spark of emerald in the chaos around him. Where was the mark? Where was -

Finally the elf appeared, rolling to a skidding stop behind him with a cry - barrier expired, daggers low, braced on their fists against the rubbled ground. Solas whipped around, staff already wreathed in frost, and threw searing cold in a wide arc. The shades froze solid mid-lunge.

"Go!" he yelled, and called fire to his hands. "Go!"

Lavellan gasped once, breath tremulous with adrenaline and fear - then staggered to their feet and ran, leaving him and the creatures behind. Presently, he heard the whip-crack of a tether forming, and the low whine of rift magic. He made ashes of the remaining demons, and looked.

There was no change in the Breach.

His face fell as he stared into the depths of the rapidly closing rift. He should have known better than to hope; the mark was yet unmastered, the breach too great, the remaining rifts too numerous. There were still too many unknown variables. Still, he thought; still, he had led them to an acceptable start. Better than nothing.

This was only the beginning.

The rift imploded.


	2. been three days

He woke to a heavy knock at the door. Solas lifted his head, blinking the Fade from his eyes.

The human alchemist, Adan (the only 'healer' in Haven, though only by a stretch) looked up from washing a compress, then made a dismissive noise and returned to his work.

The sun had yet to rise. A candle sat unlit in the windowsill, probably extinguished during his dreamer's absence. A glance at the hand he held loosely in his own revealed no discernable difference in the mark, glowing faintly in the pre-dawn.

He looked up.

Lavellan remained unconscious.

He exhaled deeply once, through his nose. The past two days had been a frantic affair, his hours consumed with attending to a patient whose illnesses could only partially be healed by physical means. Between himself and Adan, they seen a gradual but marked improvement in the elf's health, but the only certainty he had been able to give the Spymaster and Seeker was that no, this time, they would not die from the mark.

That had been no news to him, though it had set the two women's minds somewhat at ease.

No, the mark would not kill Lavellan. The strain of _bearing_ the mark, was... another matter entirely.

It had ceased causing them pain since they'd closed the first rift, when he had stopped it from spreading. That immediate threat had been the first thing he'd seen to - making sure that the hours between their receiving the mark and his attending to it, hadn't caused irreversible damage to their person. It had not, to his relief; he would have been unhappy to give its host another reason to resent the key they held unwillingly, and even more so if it had become threat enough to their life to necessitate abandoning the precious key altogether.

Most of the time he spent bent over the fragment of magic in their hand was for appearances' sake. The rest of it he used to inconspicuously guide the human healer away from accidentally poisoning their shared charge. The man was an alchemist first, and while his knowledge in the 'healing arts' was appreciatively solid, if rudimentary, the man was better suited to concocting things that exploded.

Once the matter of the mark was resolved, and it was confirmed they were in no danger of perishing via physical wounds, there was really little to do. But Solas lingered; because In the end, it was all under the guise of attempting to solve another issue.

The Herald would not wake.

_Of course they would not wake_, he thought. The amount of energy they'd been forced to harbor in a mortal body for well over a day, then learned to control within the span of less than a few hours' worth of consciousness... even a small drop of the vast ocean of the Fade was more than they would have experienced within a lifetime, and the mark was no small drop. It had been a torrent, unleashed without care, fully capable of killing a less willful being.

Now the waters were dammed, and dammed well; but they'd asked too much of its host in too short a time. The mark itself worked without question, but its handler needed time to build strength, grow familiar with it, allow it to become a sixth sense in order to use it regularly without hurting themselves.

If they recovered fully from the first time.

They could be so unlucky… or they could be fine. He was quickly making himself comfortable with either eventuality. If the mark were lost, he would have to find another way - and he would have to leave this place, at all speed. It would be as difficult to convince Haven's protectorates to spare him, if their precious Herald were revealed as compromised under his watch, as it had been to convince them to trust him to preserve their life in the first place.

Another series of knocks, more rapid than the first.

It opened before he could reach for the handle, doorframe filling with the shivering outline of Adan's assistant, plus one wide box of supplies. Herbal, by the scent of it. Elfroot and blood lotus?

"Oy! Careful with those," barked Adan, standing himself to take the case out of the assistant's hands. "Lotus is damned difficult to get a hold of in this weather, you can't keep bruising them like that or it'll freeze and the ice'll burn it—"

He arranged the other elf's arm to lay over their stomach. The mark glowed faintly on, bleeding through skin and fabric alike.

It was a natural and common occurrence in the Fade - but he knew this effect unnerved many of the people in Haven, most of whom were not mages and had never consciously laid eyes on the Beyond. The perilous Beyond had no understanding of mass, or immutability. The Breach, and by extension, its key, reflected this.

Briefly, he found himself curious of what Lavellan themselves thought of it - the mark itself, not the pain and turmoil it had caused them.

Still only negative things, probably.

"Alert me if there is any change," he asked of the human, rising from his stool.

Adan scoffed, in the middle of straining a poultice. "If anything changes at all, you mean."

His vest was where he'd left it. The garment fell on his shoulders like a second skin. "Alert me if there is any change," he repeated. "They will wake eventually."

"You don't have to tell me what I already know," muttered the alchemist.

He picked up his staff from the near wall. He'd brought it with him as a precaution; it doubled as a focus, and as an effective clobber should another ill-wisher attempt to take his patient's life (he did not prefer to weld a blade to the back end, as had become the trend again in recent decades). But so far, it had not been necessary. Perhaps once he had been allowed more time with their intended victim, his infamy had kept the would-be killers away. He was well (or, not so _well_) known as the hedge mage that had never set foot in the Circles; a wicked, wild elf, the very type of apostate chantry sisters used in fairy tales to frighten little children.

Or, more simply, perhaps the greatly decreased distance to the Commander's tent and the militia at large dissuaded them from breaking through the simple wooden walls.

There was truly nothing to do but wait. He thought of how the Seeker would respond to the news, and grimaced.

The former Divine's Right Hand, Seeker Pentaghast - she had been preoccupied with the remaining Chantry forces since the day they'd returned to Haven. Busy as she was, the woman had not had the leisure of asking him for a full report, yet; but he knew she would ultimately find it suspicious if he did not have anything significant for too long.

Behind him, Lavellan stirred. They muttered something in a strained voice, shifting in their sheets. He allowed himself a final glance at their unconscious form, then stepped into the cold.

The Seeker stood at ease, apparently having done so for awhile; the snow that gathered on her heavy cloak and hair announced clearly that he had kept her waiting. Her sword was belted and at her side, as always. On guard against any and all threats, even walking among apparent allies.

_E__specially_ among apparent allies. Her allies currently included himself.

It was prudent, if a little obvious.

"Solas," she greeted. She returned to attention, nodding first at him, then at the soldier standing watch. The young man saluted, and they went on their way.

They walked in the direction of the tavern. He spied a familiar figure kneeling beside a fire with a group of humans, chatting amicably with a pair of women. Tethras glanced in his direction, and he held up a hand in greeting.

"Well, if it isn't our resident Fade expert. Cheerful as ever, I see," the dwarf said, raising an eyebrow when he saw who was at his side. "And... Seeker. Taking a walk, you two? The weather's, eh... been better," he shrugged dismissively.

"Varric." The swordswoman's voice alone could parch oceans.

"Pleasure as always," the dwarf winced.

While the Seeker rolled her eyes he angled an inquisitive look toward the direction of Lavellan's quarters, which Solas answered by a minute shake of the head.

Tethras's lips pressed into a line in understanding. He let his gaze catch on Cassandra for a moment longer, then turned back to the fire as she and Solas walked away.

Along the path and between every structure there were refugees, soldiers, and servants alike, all leaving trails of hurried breath as they went about their business. He looked to the sky, where a half-dozen columns of smoke and the voices of a hundred wounded rose to nothing.

Haven was not meant to house so many. Even when the Hero of Ferelden had passed through, there had been barely over a dozen in its isolated clusters of houses. It could hardly support their quickly growing militia, let alone an entire local region's worth of displaced peoples. The very ground was not fit for long-term sustainability on this large a scale... He had seen the forces' leader, the Commander, arrange his face into a hopeless grimace more than once at the settlements' inadequate defenses, inadequate quarters, inadequate stores.

Even the camp just outside its walls had been overflowing well before the destruction of the Conclave, fit to burst with religious immigrants and lower clergy.

Now...

Now, the whole place was simply watching the Breach, waiting for it - or anything; everything - to fall apart.

With his attention divided between his thoughts and the muted din of the tavern in the distance, he did not see the servant approach. She saw them too late, and inevitably stumbled over herself righting her path, spilling soup meant for the soldiers out of her pot; he halted when the steam rising off the spilt broth licked at his bare feet.

Her eyes met his for only a moment when she glanced up, horrified through the amber vallaslin covering half her face. Andruil's, he recognized, dully. Her eyes flitted from his face, to his ears, to his staff, then stuck to the ground. She apologized hastily, hands clutching her vessel as she attempted to bow out of the way, but all it did was slosh more of the soup around.

"Wait," Solas began.

"Irina," Cassandra said, calmly. Solas glanced at her in surprise. "Stop. Let us help you."

She froze, obediently, and allowed the other woman to approach; the sight inspired a twist of unease in him, but he did not hesitate to smile reassuringly when she stole another glance at him.

It was always the staff. The staff, or the ears, but more usually the staff.

The servant did not meet his eyes when Cassandra helped her adjust the pot in her hands, or even when Solas picked up the dropped lid and set it gently over its matching vessel, or even when he froze off the sad clumps of overcooked potatoes from the sleeves of her worn tunic.

"M-my thanks, ser," managed the girl.

"It was no trouble," he said, and bit back a comment about magic's utility. It would have likely fallen on deaf ears. Fear tended to have that effect.

"Solas and I will be on our way," said Cassandra, gently.

"Of course, Lady Cassandra."

The servant bowed low, muttered another word of thanks, and rushed off with the covered pot, eyes cast down.

He did not speak of the foul taste in his mouth, and Cassandra did not comment on his expression.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you."

They moved on.

"Still no sign of consciousness?" The Seeker prompted, once they had passed the tavern altogether. By unspoken agreement they both stopped before the small dwellings that were given to himself and Adan.

He found his small room quite satisfactory. It was well out of range of most prying eyes and ears. Solas allowed himself a long look at his door, knowing the possibility of peace, and more importantly, sleep, and meditation, awaited him inside.

Then he looked away. There were matters at hand.

"No. Not yet," he sighed, a long breath. He would have preferred to belay this conversation until the next morning. But Cassandra was nothing if not a woman of action, and had the impatience to match. It had been three days since they'd spoken last.

She waited.

"Their health has improved. But the stress of the mark was… it may be some time before they can leave the Fade. They are not lost, Seeker," he reassured her quickly, seeing her eyes widen. "Simply— wandering."

"Wandering," she repeated, skeptically, but settled herself. Her brow furrowed. "In the Fade? They have no magical gifts."

"To put it simply, it is likely an effect of the mark. It does channel magic through them, not unlike a mage channels the Fade. I believe it is having a related effect on their sleep. But as it is not really their own magic, it may confuse the spirits enough into leaving them be. The mark may be able to control the rifts, seal the Breach, perhaps even give them something akin to conscious dreams, but make a mage of a rogue? _That_ is unlikely."

Mostly unlikely, anyhow. The bit about the mark not attracting interest to their person was a blatant lie. He had spent a good amount of time setting up wards over their corner of the fadescape and guarded their fevered dreams himself, watching against potential intruders attracted by the key. Any knowing entity might veer from it - and them - simply by recognizing the nature of the magic (his), but it was hard to be certain, and a chance he would not take.

The Seeker did not need to know of every detail, in any case.

"You said that the mark is like nothing you've seen before," she recalled. "Undoubtedly more powerful than any ordinary magic, of any ordinary mage. Is that not cause for concern?"

"Perhaps. But most spirits fled after the destruction of the Conclave. Those left pose little threat to them now."

He curled his toes into the snow. The ground was numb with cold in Haven, but not dead. Not entirely. Spirits might have lingered here before, ones that could have imparted some knowledge of what had happened - but that was no longer a possibility, following the Breach. The only beings still remaining would be of no help to him.

"Our journey toward the Breach brings me to think differently," Cassandra said. "There _are_ still demons about, even if you say they are fewer in number."

No. Yes. "All the necessary precautions have been taken. I have survived the Fade under more dire circumstances."

"With all due respect, Solas; _you_ are not the Herald."

"And I am glad of it."

She shot him a displeased look. "And the rifts? Is there no other way to be rid of them but the mark?"

_None that are available to me now. _"None that I am aware of," he replied.

Cassandra made a noise at the back of her throat, clearly unhappy. "If the Herald does not wake," she began, in a low voice -

"I am confident I can see to it that they _do_," Solas snapped, tiring of the interrogation, the veiled threats, the uncertainty that plagued his next course of action because it hinged on an unconscious, fragile, _youth_. "Otherwise, I would not still be standing here."

The Seeker fell silent, eyebrows raised. His hand fell over his temple, covering his scowl, eyes pinched shut against everything.

He had to remember that he was here by his own submission. It embarrassed him to be so frustrated by it; foolish, of him. They were yet allies, if temporarily. It would be absurd to end that relationship from his side before the terms were fulfilled. He had to tread carefully.

It would be a grave mistake to rely only on his usefulness to guarantee their cooperation - even if that were the sole reason he'd even been allowed a _pretense_ of respect.

"I apologize, Seeker." He sighed, and brought himself to calm. "I will make sure they are not harmed. I swear it."

"If you are certain," she said, still not entirely convinced. But a moment later she shook herself. "No. I believe you. You have no reason to lie. Then — _when_ the Herald wakes, Solas, I would ask that you remain with us," she said.

He looked at her. "And by that you mean to say I have a choice in the matter?"

She huffed. "Of course you do. You volunteered your services. I will not keep you from leaving, but surely you must know: it is dangerous to leave Haven now, as an apostate. And we could use your expertise here."

"So I gathered," he replied, warily. He had an inkling of the Seeker's character, and morals - it was difficult not to. She was a commanding woman. Her unusual strength of character was what had eventually convinced him to risk working further with them, zealous as the religious tended to be. But the promise of one human did little to convince him of anything other than their idealism.

He accepted the gesture for what it was. "I will consider it."

"Thank you."

They lapsed into an awkward silence. The wind whistled past his ears.

"I regret that I was not able to hear you out before all this," she admitted, after some hesitation. "I was informed of your expertise from Leliana before the Herald woke, but I realize now it was unwise not to have gone to you personally. Perhaps it might have made a difference."

"It hardly matters now. We have a means to seal the Breach, but it requires more power to be done properly." He folded his hands behind his back. "It is, as I mentioned before, only temporarily sealed. We will need as much energy as it took to create it before we even a chance at closing it properly."

"How are we going to find so much power?" the Seeker wondered, and sighed. "No, we will worry about it once they are awake. Thank you, Solas."

He turned to leave, assuming the scene had run its course. Two steps toward the door to blessed solitude, he realized Cassandra had not moved.

"Personally," she began, slowly, and he could see her fingers twitching against the pommel of her longsword, a minute nervous tic. Looking strangely out of her depth, she went on, "I would - prefer that you stay. Some might think otherwise, but I believe the Herald could do well under your guidance. I think it does them good to have you around."

Thrown by the turn in conversation, he stared, blankly. "What?"

Her fingers stilled. "Do you not agree?"

"I'm... afraid I do not follow," he said.

"You seemed to get along, back on the river." At this he opened his mouth to speak, but she added, "And you are both elven. Perhaps that means something to them."

The words withered on his tongue.

"Why, because we both have long ears?" he scowled. The conversation needed to end. Now. He had no patience for this. "Shall I presume your round ones suddenly create an arbitrary relationship between yourself and every other human in this camp? I can see how you might _assume_ our appearance dictates how we go about our lives, Seeker, but I assure you -"

Color rose in her face, staining her composure. "No!" The word burst from her lips. "That is not what I meant!"

A group of early risers talking behind the tavern startled, turning in his direction. A templar eyed him critically from just outside its doors. The Seeker waved a dismissive hand, and they all turned away, the templar last, reluctantly.

Exasperated, she sighed. "I know how that must have sounded to you, but I only meant to say that I thought... It was simply my _opinion_ that -"

Her voice faltered at the severity of his disapproval, all but radiating from his visage. There was a creak of leather as she pinched the bridge of her nose with a gloved hand.

"_Ugh._ Forget I said anything."

He probably should not have enjoyed feeling as vindicated as he did at that moment. He allowed himself to enjoy it anyway. It had been a long three days. Three days of constant chaos, every waking moment spent fighting, surviving, calculating — without privacy, surrounded by _humans._

"If that is all," he posited.

"Yes. It is." Finally, the conversation was closed. "I will pass on what you have said. If it is power we need, we shall find it one way or another, Maker willing." The last part she murmured under her breath as she turned to leave, soles of her boots crunching through fresh snowfall.

They had been talking for some time, he realized, noting the sun beginning to ascend from the jagged line of the Frostbacks.

Cassandra paused, considering the sunrise, then made a dry smile. "Good night, Solas."

He hummed, and inclined his head. "And you, Seeker."

"Cassandra," she corrected, mildly, then disappeared in the direction of the chantry.

Solas exhaled, suddenly weary. His breath flowed past him in a visible trail. When the Herald wakes… he shook his head. There would be time for that when they actually woke. The wards he'd placed would hold for at least a few hours; Adan would spend at least as much time preparing the day's stock of potions. He could rest until then.

His hand had just alighted on the doorjamb when a flurry of motion across the fortress caught his eye. Automatically his fingers tightened on his staff, eyes seeking out the far frame of the Herald's quarters for any sign of danger; the guard stood in his place, unperturbed.

He held his breath; had it been nothing? His pupils adjusted quickly to the changing shadows, rising daylight slanting over the outer walls.

A heartbeat later, something shifted in the Fade. He felt it as surely as he would have a breeze in stale air.

WIth a shout, someone fled through the door, startling the guard - Solas tensed, briefly, before recognizing the slim silhouette as Adan's assistant. She ran a short distance to the gates, where the alchemist stood inspecting another crate of supplies. The man's head snapped up at the girl's frantic voice.

Solas started at the sight of the two. Was the unconscious Herald _alone_ in their quarters? Did Adan not remember the multiple attempts on their life these past few days? Alarmed, he started in their direction, already decided to make the return trip -

Another figure left the front door. This time, there was no mistaking who they were. Waves of fade-green were visible even through the folds of their cloak and the bandages wrapped heavily around their left hand. At the sight of it, all the mounting apprehension bled from his body.

The Herald was awake.


	3. attempted to flee

"Ma'fen," the spirit smiled, solidifying into that familiar, robed figure as he approached. He returned the smile, tiredly. It reached for him, cupped his cheek with a misty hand. "You have succeeded."

"For now, ma'falon. The real difficulties are yet to begin -"

Wisdom smacked the side of his face, annoyed. It was light. He tolerated it. "Hush. Enjoy the peace while it lasts. It is fleeting."

Floating from his side, it motioned him to the space beside it. He sighed, and relented. Sinking cross-legged into the long grass that formed reflexively beneath his feet, Solas queried, "I did not think I would find you so near. Is it not unwise to venture this close to the Breach?"

"In a manner of speaking," it replied, bemused. "But it is not foolishness to worry for a friend. And no, I will not hear it from you, you silly creature," it went on before the elf could argue the point. Solas deflated, appropriately contrite. "You know this better than I."

"...True." He broke the stem of a budding flower, and the petals unfolded in his hand. Wisdom never failed to make him feel... not younger, but childish. It was not a bad thing. "You never change," the elf said, equal parts rueful and affectionate.

"It is my nature. What is troubling you?"

"Many things," he began, then buried his eyes beneath a closed palm. "I do not know where to start. I am tired. I wish I were not."

When his eyes opened next the glade was fully formed. Water pooled in a weather-worn bed, fed by a trickle that came from nowhere, and everywhere. Rabbits tended the grass; a herd of halla grazed where the smaller animals did not lounge; trees of a color he had not seen in centuries cast gentle shade over it all, leaves dancing in a breeze that did not exist. The scene was familiar, and yet he knew it never would have existed in the real world as it was. All the wrong species, the wrong variations, plucked out of vastly different biomes and seasons and ages.

It was beautiful.

After a moment, he made a fish leap from the placid lake.

Wisdom laughed. "You always did like those best," it said.

"They are graceful," he defended, imagining a school of the glittering animals darting beneath the water. Small insects formed next, out of wisps to feed the fish, bringing with them the low hum of their wings. A cobweb spun itself delicately over a long stalk, the better to allow a stout spider to take advantage of their errant flight patterns, and then a lone bird broke into song, calling for its partner from the branches of the nearby brush -

"Stop distracting yourself."

He chuckled. "As you say." But he cracked an indulgent smile, and the bird's missing paramour landed upon the spirit's shoulder with a flutter of wings. A bundle of thin reeds jutted from his beak.

Wisdom scoffed, but regarded the tiny avian with curiosity. He smiled.

The birdsong came again, nearer. The sparrow turned its head, bright eyes trained on the treeline, chirruped once, and flew away.

"I saw the first rift," offered the spirit, casually, and he started out of his reverie.

"_What?_" he breathed.

It met his stare with its own open gaze, calm as stone; then, to Solas's surprise and horror, he was treated to glimpses of what it spoke of: the rift, its appearance from this side.

The Breach was a great hole, pulling ruthlessly on the fabric of space. The rift below was milder, but no less a danger. First and foremost, it was a yawning chasm, enticing spirit and demon alike with glimpses of the real world; the demons crowded close, _recklessness_ and _wrath_ and _terror_, readily happy to feed on the chaos that seeped through. Spirits of curiosity sometimes flitted among them but only for brief moments, aware of the danger, repelled by the _fear _of an unknown end... then suddenly the rift was covered, its mouth muffled by the presence of something greater.

Its form billowed, crystalline waves of gold cresting outward as it held the seams together, halting the procession of smaller things. It lay itself over the rift. Forcing it partially shut.

He watched as time skipped ahead, bypassing the slow sap of its energy, the wearing of its will. There was a loud crack, as the rift was forced open from the other side, unexpected; then chaos descended, rift ripping wide as the spirit hurtled into the tear, unable to resist. It twisted the moment mortals lay eyes on it, into _p__ride_, as it finally succumbed to the consequences of its—

_Courage._

He sucked in air, finding himself shaking. "I had suspected…"

His friend considered him coolly, removed from his turmoil. "I could not stop it."

"That does not make it better!" he hissed, covering his face. "The Breach swallows the best of us without care and spits us out - _corrupted_ \- and I can do nothing but -"

"Do not dwell on what did not happen," Wisdom cut him off, sharply. Its eyes narrowed. "Lethallin, you could not have stopped it any sooner than I. You could not have foreseen it. To regret it is expected. Wallow in guilt if you must. But clear your conscience, before it becomes you."

"I…"

It was right, of course. He forced himself to relax, made himself breathe. Around him, the glen stilled as the herd of halla retreated into the deep woods, the fish into the watery depths; the flower in his hand wilted, petals falling away from the head. They pattered softly from his fingers and vanished between the blades of grass under his legs. So quick to fade.

"They do not understand." He refused to wince at how small his voice sounded.

"Yes."

"I am very tired."

"Yes."

Another blossom curled near his hand. He picked it. It bloomed; it died. "They fear me. And if they do not fear me, they disregard me. Am I nothing but what I can do for them?" The furrow that creased his brow was pensive, but not angry. "I am impatient. They know so little, but they would rather hear their own ignorance repeated by others before they think to ask me, because of my ears, or my magic. They are afraid."

"Fear is simple. It comes easily to them."

Agitated, he picked another flower, this time closer to its base. The long stem was light between his fingers, even lighter when the petals unfurled and leapt away, on the invisible wind.

"That is understandable," he said, letting its remains fall to the ground. "I am worth fearing. Many things are. But even their fear is built on the wrong assumptions; most cannot even understand that they make them. They do not know where their assumptions begin and end. It offends them when I suggest it." A black look fell over his face. "Even the People have forgotten, ma'falon; the Herald, they are _Dalish_. And their _vallaslin_—"

He stiffened, realization dawning. When he looked up, the spirit was watching him with an expression akin to expectant.

"Ah," he said, at length. "There is the root of it."

"Indeed," remarked Wisdom. "You find yourself among those who would choose ignorance. But you cannot force them to seek knowledge, for it would spoil the search. This frustrates you?"

"Yes. _Constantly_."

"Of course." A smile lit upon their features. "It is your nature."

A beat. He smoothed his fingers over the grass, watching as a tiny sea of petals unfurled in their wake— and remained, delicate faces intact in a rolling bed of green.

"My nature..." A shudder moved through him, then left just as quickly, and he let out a shallow breath. If the other noticed the wet rimming his eyes, it made no observation. "...of course. Of course. Ara seranna; I meant to speak with you of other things, not bore you with my childishness."

"Atisha-ma; it was no trouble," it replied. Its smile grew fond. "You are yet wise, Solas."

Despite the weight still over his chest, he found it in himself to laugh. "Were I as sure of it as you."

* * *

Hours later, an elf and a dwarf stood together in a snowdrift.

"Aren't you cold?" Tethras asked, voice somewhat muffled by the armfuls of powder ice he was shoveling away from his person.

Always with the questions. "_I_ am not the one up to their waist in snow," Solas pointed out, tugging one foot free - only to watch it sink down again in nearly the exact same spot, as there was nowhere for it to go. He grimaced. This hadn't been part of his plans when he'd left Haven's walls late that afternoon. Seek a sheltered corner in the nearby foothills to meditate and ponder his next move, yes.

Discover a half-frozen dwarf buried in packed snow, then lose his staff in the effort of trying to escape from the same damned hole… no.

No.

A shuffle. Solas guessed that Tethras has shrugged, from the sound that he heard coming from the general direction. "Eh, it's not so bad. The Wounded Coast was way worse than this. And that was in the summer." Three grunts of exertion and an exasperated sigh later, there was another shuffle, which might have been the splay of defeated, gloved hands over snow. "Still alive over there?"

"Yes, Master Tethras." With an effort he pulled his other leg clear of the white, kicked futilely in one direction, then sighed. A flame came at his beckoning, curling between his fingers with a little bit of focus. Enough was enough.

"It's Varric, by the way. 'Master Tethras' is my… _was_ my..." A noise like scratching. Perhaps at a beardless chin. "...Nevermind. I smell fire. That you, Chuckles?"

'Chuckles'? "Yes."

"I have to wonder why you didn't just do that in the first place."

"Prudence," Solas replied, distractedly, mouth pressed into a grim line as he brought the fire to bear. "And the fact that these are my only dry articles of clothing."

A laugh drifted his way. "You have more than one pair of pants? Color me surprised." This was followed by a loud, dry crunch as the dwarf gave up, and sat into the snow.

"This, from someone whose shirts never fit him properly," he returned, the corner of his mouth raised as he finally lifted one sodden foot from its wintry prison. The mirth fled quickly when he set it back down, and his wraps began to absorb mud.

At that point, he decided, it was probably far easier to resign himself to it. There was really no way to go about this in a dignified manner.

Varric scoffed dramatically. "You wound me, serah." Then: "Hurry up with the fire?"

Ignoring this, Solas set to work on the other side. The heat that emanated from the magic-fueled fire gradually melted through the first few inches, leaving his legs damp with water; he coaxed the warmth to grow and condense, and it ate through the remaining layers with ease.

When the retreating ice was halfway down his other calf the slow trickle of meltwater revealed his staff, and he nearly burnt the wood in his haste. Extinguishing the flame, he pulled the weapon free, dousing himself in a shower of flakes for his trouble.

Once free it was easy to locate Varric, who had visibly sunk deeper into the snow than last he'd seen, and who gave him a cheery wave once he found them. Solas's reply was less cheerful, but more practical: a larger spell to melt the rest of the offending snow away. Multiple spells. Once the heat had reduced the drift to slush, the dwarf stepped out of the resulting mess.

Solas turned a critical eye to the waterlogged dirt. Well; the path it bisected was out of the way, winding up the mountains to nowhere, and no one with any real business would have need of it anytime soon. It would freeze over, eventually. And the snow would return. Given time.

He looked a little longer at the mud, then mechanically cast a cold spell once Varric was out of the way.

"So, I know you already took time out of your day to help me," the dwarf said slowly, looking carefully at an elfroot plant as he wrung out his bandanna.

Without turning, Solas fixed the newly solid ground with a _look_. "Is there someone _else_ stuck in the snow I should know about, Master Tethras?"

"I said it was _Varric._" Humor did little to hide the hesitation in that tactical avoidance. "And, no... Not exactly."

He paused, leaning on his staff. "'Not exactly'?" he repeated.

It earned him a slightly exasperated look. "Not talking about spirits here, Chuckles," Varric informed him, mildly chiding.

"Hm." Not what he had been talking about, but not worth correcting either.

Then Varric went on, in an uncharacteristically serious tone: "It's the kid. They've been missing for a few hours. I can't find them anywhere."

Solas blinked, and remembered that he was referring to Lavellan by nickname. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"As in 'I can't find them anywhere.' That kind of _missing._" Varric put his hands on his hips. A sign of agitation. "The last person that saw them was a scout and all he told me was that they were headed out _here somewhere_." He gestured to the sparse woods. The damp bandanna hung limp from his hand. "Why in Andraste's frozen knickers they'd wander out this far, I have no idea. But here _you_ are. Maybe you know?"

He did not. There was nothing but snow and mountains for miles in any direction aside from the paths that led to Haven. "No," he said, frowning. The faint hope that had temporarily lifted Varric's brow vanished, and Solas found he was sorry to disappoint. "I simply enjoy the silence."

"Damn." Varric paced, briefly, then seemed to realize he was doing it, and stopped. "_Damn._"

"Does the Seeker know?" Solas wanted to know, suddenly.

"She will as soon as I get back," was the grim reply; "If she hasn't realized it already."

From this he could infer that both too much time had passed since the Herald's disappearance, and too much time would further pass before a proper search could be mounted.

Not good.

"This is a problem," he murmured, a statement of what was beginning to be alarmingly obvious. He lifted his eyes. Gauging the height of the sun, there was only an hour or two before light faded completely from the valley. Not enough time. He had barely begun exploring the wilderness on this side. Walking the fade for information would have been faster - if not for the lack of spirits in the general vicinity.

"Yeah. I noticed." Varric blew a breath. "Look, I can't travel any farther out here. I'll go back and tell them to start looking. Knowing the Seeker, she'll send out a search party. We'll have 'em found in no time." The optimism rang a little hollow, unable to shake the ominous air that crept in with the chill. Solas nodded, however.

He turned the day's events over, in his mind. Luckily he had been fairly present for most of it, due to the importance of what had happened; a little thinking rewarded him with a memory of seeing the Herald herded to the Chantry not long after waking, their alarm poorly hidden at seeing people line the paths. He followed the train of events easily from there: after watching Cassandra take them inside, he had answered a few questions for the Nightingale, and been allowed to rest. He had woken out of hunger not long after.

Presently, he recalled it: the last he'd seen of the Herald had been when he had gone to the tavern for food. The elf had slipped away from the Chantry quietly, making toward the outer gates with hurried steps and their hands buried deep in the folds of their clothes.

Surely they would not have attempted to flee the place alone, he thought, absurdly. It would have been suicidal to try. And they had not even taken a cloak.

Abruptly, his hands went cold.

Varric noticed the change in his composure immediately. "What is it?"

"Alert the Seeker," he said, gripping his staff. "I will continue your search here."

* * *

The sun hung low when he finally found them. Their footsteps had faded long ago under multiple fallings of snow; the only sign they were there - and he had nearly missed it himself in the dimming light - was the end of a long scrap of cloth, poking out from between two elfroot fronds. He had knelt to inspect it, thinking it evidence of passing through - then heard the sniff.

After a moment of consideration, he pocketed the bandage.

He looked about, quietly. There was little around him but a few tenacious plants, and a trio of trunks that led to sparse, but still green, foliage. Solas paused, then took several steps back.

In the sunset, the shade cast upon the unmarred snow revealed their silhouette; a single mass unmoving against the trunk of a tree, amidst the shadow of swaying branches. Solas looked up. Lavellan was tucked into the gnarled crook of a high branch, settled far behind the needles. Only the wind's howling, insistent on moving all before it, had betrayed their presence. The evergreen had even partially masked the mark's errant glow. Clever.

A narrowed eye appeared over the top of the branch, then disappeared. He fought the impulse to cleave the wood where it met the trunk and have it over with; it was a pity he was not more familiar with patience.

Or an axe.

He peered into the tree, weighing his options, and went with the simplest one.

"Herald," he said.

No response. He stabbed his staff into the ground and stood a moment, alone with the wind, then pursued a slightly different option.

"Varric trapped himself in a large snowdrift, looking for you," he said.

There was a pause. And then a movement; some rustling.

He waited.

More rustling followed, louder and more significant, and he knew his words had had an effect. When the elf dropped out of the lowest branch to land heavily on their feet, he reminded himself not to smirk.

"Herald," he began -

"Where is he?" they demanded, voice hoarse. Then, in a more accusing tone: "You just _left_ him there by himself?"

He closed his mouth. On their countenance he noted the red-rimmed eyes, the inflammation of their nose and ears, and the general pallor of their skin. They had been too long in the cold. With their physical state as it had been, barely recovered from the Breach, there was increasingly cause for concern.

The rising impatience in his breast he swallowed down before it could surface, and instead arranged his features into a mask of calm. "By now? He should be back in Haven. I imagine he was eager to spin a tale of his misfortune to the Seeker."

The growl that tore out of their throat was wet. They turned to walk away.

No. He caught them by the crook of the arm; they would not disappear again. "You are sick. We must return to Haven."

The limb tore right out of his grip, and he let it. Lavellan pinned him with an unfocused but still furious glare. "_Don't_ touch me."

"If it makes you feel better, I apologize," he replied, withdrawing his hand. "but now is hardly the appropriate time to argue. You are _sick._ If you truly wish to leave, Seeker Cassandra will have it arranged. You can be out of Haven and the mountains in less than a day's travel on horseback - if you _survive_ that long, in the state that you are in." Painfully aware of the slanting daylight, he demanded of them more beseechingly this time: "Return to Haven. _Please._"

"Why, so I can flee safely on the backs of their benevolent generosity?" they rebutted, trembling violently. Disgust was written plain on their face, in the tense angles of their body. Solas allowed them their anger; clearly, it had been some time coming. "I'm no fool. This mark will give me away faster than anything, even my vallaslin. Half the continent wants to kill me over it, and the other half think I'm their _Herald of Andraste -_ Fenhedis lasa! You expect me to run into the arms of the _C__hantry_ to survive?"

"I expect you to _survive,_" he corrected, shortly. "You are no use to anyone dead."

"Only because of _this,_" they shot back, throwing the crackling hand between them.

A noise of frustration escaped him. This was going nowhere. "The Inquisition alone can protect you," he reminded them, now well and truly terse. "It does not matter where you go; the Breach will find you where you are. You have the only means of closing it for good."

In the distance, the sun dipped into the mountains.

"I never asked for the key," Lavellan said flatly, moving a few paces back- sluggishly, as exhaustion crept past their adrenaline. Solas made no move to follow and instead watched a cold sweat bead on their brow; watched the shallow rise and fall of their shoulders drag a long drop from the side of their temple to the hollow of their throat. "I don't want to be a part of this. I won't be the figurehead of some religious, _human -_" An empty, plaintive laugh issued from their lips. "I'm an _elf._"

"I had noticed," he said, though their tirade was clearly meant to be one-sided.

"And this was _never supposed to be my problem,_" Lavellan went on, as he expected. They followed this with an incredulous huff; days of pent aggravation all told in a single breath. "Let the shemlen take care of it. They say it was their Maker that created the Veil. Let _him_ fix it. Let their Andraste give someone else another magic key. Herald of Andraste my fucking - I'm an _elf,_" they repeated. "I'm _Dalish."_

He scoffed lightly, at that. Elf and Dalish were not the same thing. "I fail to see how that matters."

Their reaction was immediate; hostility rising plain on their face, eyes glowering as if to pierce holes into him. Not even anger, truly - more scorn than vehemence, their entire frame bristling with it.

"Of course_ you_ wouldn't understand," they snarled.

Solas went very, very still.

"No," he bit out, voice low. His shadow fell long over the ground as darkness drew. "I suppose that I wouldn't."

All his willingness for benevolence drained from him. A flood of anger replaced it, suffused through every nerve, contorting his brow and the curve of his lip into something altogether unkind; the other elf stared him down, refusing to falter.

He should have expected this, he thought, watching their jaw set. The odds had always been low that the key had been placed on the hand of someone who could handle its burden. Panic, denial, emotional turmoil - these were all a typical responses, but the Herald's were truly, an inconvenience, paired with the type of character that would cause them to pursue actions with potentially disastrous consequences -

Lavellan's knuckles began to turn white where their fists hung stiff, at their side. "Well?" they demanded. Clearly a dismissal.

Solas returned their flat gaze, tersely, then lifted his staff. "Return to Haven, or wait until the Seeker arrives with a search party. Night will fall soon. The choice is yours." He bent his legs, testing his feet. His clothes had long since frozen through, but only now did he feel the chill seeping through the garments; it would be a long, unpleasant walk back. "You can inform her you wish to leave when given the chance."

The wind wailed; he saw Lavellan waver against it, but their voice was firm. "No."

"You are not a _child._"

"You're right," they agreed, blithely. "I'm not."

Fine.

Enough.

Solas spun on his heel, through with the exchange.

"Tell Varric," he heard them call out, belatedly - or rather, manage to begin calling out, before the rest of the words dissolved into a string of coughs.

He made himself stop, and then he made himself look back once more - in time to see the Herald stagger to their knees, fighting for breath. A fraction of a moment later, they collapsed into the snow. And did not move.

He stared.

Of _course._

White fog escaped in a thin stream from the cage of his teeth as he looked down on their unmoving form, dispassionately.

They could die here. Left alone, they would die. The Herald would not survive the night, not in the state they were in, not here in this climate, and not slowly. The snow would envelop them and wipe away whatever was left of his trail. It would be difficult for Cassandra to find him if it were lost, and likewise for him to return. It would be impossible to find them if he returned alone. Above all else - the key would be lost. The world would be left at the mercy of the Breach.

Unacceptable.

Hands like dulled claws around his staff, he let his feet carry him to where their body lay.

The wind sang higher, in shrill notes, depositing snow in volume. He brushed the powder white off their skin, and set a a glyph of heat into the leather of their gloves, then to their back. A cursory appraisal of their injuries revealed no immediate concerns. A modified barrier diverted the wind from his back, and he removed his vest to set it just over their nose and lips, discouraging the cold from reaching them. Without its host's agitation to fuel it, the mark lay dormant.

Solas pulled the long cloth from his tunic and wrapped it around their hand.

Cassandra arrived not long after the first star appeared in the sky. The soldiers gathered the unconscious elf into their custody under her watch, and let the one sitting beside alone.

When she turned to him he stood, leaning heavily on his staff, wearing an unreadable expression.

"Did they say anything to you?" she asked.

Solas moved past her. "No."


	4. four meters wide

It was late enough that there was no crowd to greet them when they returned, only Varric and a few more soldiers waiting for news of the Herald. A runner was sent to the chantry - ostensibly to debrief the Commander and the Nightingale - and another to the alchemist. Adan arrived momentarily, looking haggard for the hours he'd stayed up waiting, only to take one look at the unconscious Herald and rush off to his quarters for his supplies - leaving a single, poignant exclamation in his wake (_"Balls!"_).

"What happened?" Varric rounded on the conscious of the two elves after witnessing the other be ferried off. Solas, fighting exhaustion and the bitter sting of ice yet frozen to his wraps, merely allowed the dwarf a long look at his unamicable expression. "Shit. Do I even want to know?"

"...I believe it was an attempt at an escape," he said, eventually. Varric's lips turned down.

"From what, the Breach?"

Smaller. More petty. "...The Inquisition."

"Damn. I could tell they never liked the idea," the blonde admitted, crossing his arms - a knot of limbs to mirror the knot of his brow. "Just didn't realize exactly how much."

"It seems we have overestimated their desire to cooperate," Solas muttered in agreement, watching the Seeker dismiss the rest of the contingent. The soldiers retreated immediately outside the gates, where the militia's camps were, glad to be soon asleep. The fortress shut behind the last woman with a groan of wood and hinges. "Or at least assumed that it had become a non-issue."

"Well, it's the Chantry_,_ for crying out loud." Varric ran a hand through his hair. "When they decide something? _Generally_ everyone assumes it's gonna happen. Guess the Herald of Andraste took exception," he muttered. "You going to talk to them about that?"

He heard the implication: because they were both elves. His jaw flexed, minutely. "No."

Varric leant back, to look at him. "No?"

"I had attempted before. It did not end well." He shook his head. "And besides, I am in no position to assume such a role. This matter is between them and the Inquisition."

"Fair enough," Varric replied. Inwardly, Solas sighed. There was something to be said about speaking to Varric Tethras that made certain things infinitely easier to communicate. If the Herald had been dwarven... he had no doubt the storyteller understood the position he was in simply by nature of his race.

The inconvenience of mere association was surely not lost on the author of the _Tale of the Champion_. That was how he'd ended up in Haven, with the Chantry, after all.

All aside, Solas found himself… disappointed. The Herald of Andraste, as they were, was more objectively unfit to the task at hand than he had gauged. The Dalish were notoriously reticent, and Lavellan _absolutely_ characterized that quality. By the twist in his gut he knew: If the world was to be saved, that would have to change. Or, at the very least, compromise. And willingly.

He drew a tired hand down his face. Yet another obstacle that would demand his attention.

Even willingly the act of radically rebuilding and reevaluating one's understanding of the world, and one's place in it entirely, was no small thing. With the attitude Lavellan had exhibited - not to forget the acute stress they were _obviously_ undergoing - it seemed that the process would be slow, and not at all pretty. He could see that now, after the fact - and the irony of their vallaslin, once a marker of adulthood within their life now rendered meaningless twice over, became even more damning in his eyes.

"Get some rest, chuckles," said Varric, seeing him worry at the valley between his eyebrows with numb fingers. When he looked up, he was shaking his head. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."

* * *

He did not see Lavellan for the next two days. On the third day he glanced up from entering his quarters and saw them walking out of Adan's, less than twenty paces away, rapt on the papers clutched in their hands.

Solas let himself look. First impressions were of a full recovery - but further examination revealed bandages adhered to various places: to the bridge of their nose, skin of their ears, face, and fingers, covering injury still healing or bruised from cold. Exhaustion made ashen smears of the skin under their eyes, contrasting with the flush of a lingering fever. And their breath ran shallow - condensation so thin in the atmosphere it was nearly lost in the wind.

But that was not terrible. Their eyes were clear and their gait was sure. Their health would return so long as they refrained from strenuous activity. Such as, say... attempting to escape the only settlement within a hundred miles, and climbing four meters vertical into a tree, and weathering some hours prone to the elements alone out of pure, panicked spite...

It was ridiculous. Even at the time the situation had been ridiculous, but things were often (always) less humorous when actually happening. Time created distance. And distance created apathy. And that apathy, in this case, elicited the acknowledgement that it had been ridiculous. He snorted, remembering the poor rebellion for what it was.

A temper tantrum.

He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him at that; Lavellan lifted their head at the noise, and inadvertantly their gazes met.

_The dangerous elven hedge mage, caught laughing at the sick and weary_, he thought. Positively villainous. He was cursed to play the incredibly glib antagonist to the Herald's naive hero, it seemed. At least he made Varric's job easy. "Good afternoon," he said.

Lavellan said nothing, gaze darting between his hand on the doorframe, the dog-eared journal under his arm, and finally his person. Unreadable. "...Yes."

He waited.

No one moved.

Well. He let his eyes linger over their shuttered expression for a moment longer, then inclined his head. The door shut behind him with a hollow _thunk._

He did not bother seeking them out, and neither did they him, after that. The few times they ended up crossing paths, it was at a distance - catching each others' profiles from the opposite sides of town, missing each other just as one turned a corner, one leaving a tent just as the other arrived.

Was it conscious - on Lavellan's part? It occurred to him that they might be wary of him, which was more than he felt about them (which was: not at all), but he did not think too long on it. They would have to deal with their opinion of him sooner or later - and if it were later, he did not have the care to worry.

On the fourth and fifth days he was summoned to the Nightingale for a thorough discourse over the Breach, the mark, and all other related events. The Herald's escapade was touched upon, but it was somewhat to his relief that he found the spymaster thought it an action in response to unusual duress. It wasn't every day the entire world was falling apart, the Nightingale joked with a sardonic smile, and neither should an elf be expected to be unaffected by being forced to put it back together.

Too true.

Privately he wondered if her experiences during the Fifth Blight informed that judgment. There was more than one parallel to be found between their Herald of Andraste and the Hero of Ferelden, and the Nightingale had been party to the latter's rise to triumphant infamy - among other things.

The warden Mahariel had been a youth once. It did not take much to imagine another Dalish elf finding herself serendipitously alive after an overwhelming tragedy - Ostagar - only to learn she was simultaneously trapped by that luck: the slow realization that her survival meant facing an obligation to serve a nation of people that hated her for who she was.

The Hero's whereabouts were currently unknown. There had been a falling-out with the new Queen of Ferelden, he recalled; something regarding Denerim's alienages or with the wardens in Orlais, and she had effectively disappeared from Ferelden's capital, and indeed all public scrutiny, afterward.

He hoped Lavellan, for all their current inexperience, would come out of the Inquisition better.

When it was over and he was dismissed from the spymaster's tent, Seeker Pentaghast - Cassandra - visited him again. A casual but professional follow-up to thank him for his service. Once she took her leave, he was once more left to his own devices as the Inquisition began to rally proper.

The Commander gathered his troops for new training regimens; the Nightingale dispersed her flock to the far reaches of the continent. The Seeker busied herself with knocking sense into the remaining clergy, spending her waking hours taking her frustrations out on dummies when not maintaining some semblance of order between the living: refugees, minor bureaucrats, merchants, and soldiers alike as the gears of organization began to gain momentum. The Ambassador he met formally a single time - the first time he had set foot within the Chantry since arriving at Haven, at her request - and if he did not completely trust _her_ he did trust her _ability_, as it was truly that of an excellent diplomat.

They did not need him for this. Lavellan was, at least, in capable hands, if not ones they necessarily trusted.

Eventually - as he ran out of things to take up his hours - he took up the habit of walking.

It was natural as breathing to wander off the paths. He went where his feet led him; the slopes surrounding Haven were as vast as they were mostly unexplored. The silent, frigid air became something of a comfort, offering solitude that the din of civilization could not provide. Sometimes he would return with elfroot, or a pair of unlucky nugs; this he would turn over to requisitions, returning - despite the officer's initial, erroneous assumption that he was a manservant - whenever he found something of note. The woman was capable, and her list was exhaustive. Elfroot and foodstuffs were always in demand.

More often he would keep his discoveries to himself. A cove hidden by icicles with a floor of solid ice. A waterfall frozen but not all the way through, what kept the river fed through the Frostbacks' permanent winter. A trio of druffalo wandering aimlessly between patches of sparse but hardy green.

Always, he would find time to meditate, both in the Fade and out of it. His spirit friend had taken leave after that single conversation post-Breach, following Lavellan's initial return to consciousness, a good thing - though it left him with no one to talk to. He hoped they would refrain from investigating the other rifts. It would only be wise.

On the seventh day, the Inquisition took charge of an abandoned logging site he'd discovered less than an hour's walk from Haven. The Nightingale's ravens returned one by one, the majority of them empty-clawed, but scouts from the east came with grim but determined faces. He spied the Herald flitting between the various citizens of Haven - speaking to the Tavern's barkeep over a bowl of thin soup, smiling ruefully at one of Varric's quips, watching the Seeker beat a training dummy into submission, being mistaken for another servant by the same requisitions officer (who at least had the decency to apologize).

The impersonal mask they held over their face in that particular situation was a familiar one, well-practiced and effortless like his own, but did not completely hide their discomfort nor their displeasure. It would improve with time. Ambassador Montilyet would see to that.

A week and one day after the Herald's failed escape one of the blacksmith's understudies knocked heavily on his door. He opened it to be presented with a not insubstantial measure of cured nugskin.

"Where," Solas began to ask.

"From your contributions. As thanks. We didn't know how to make," said the lad, then gestured vaguely toward Solas's feet instead of finishing the sentence. "For your feet," he said, redundantly. Then he shuffled off.

Solas watched him go. Later that day he haggled a light but sturdy cloth from the sour-tempered merchant near the gates to wrap the leather in. The bundle, carefully smoothed to prevent wrinkles, was put to one side of his desk. He would make use of the material when he could fashion the footwear himself - unless by some luck he could find a craftsman that was familiar with elvhen leatherwork, or able to follow extremely detailed instruction.

When the Seeker finally paused from her usual exercises to hail him as he walked past the Commander's training fields, it was thirteen days since he had last spoken to the Herald. She informed him that the Inquisition had gained a significant foothold in the Hinterlands. A sizable group of Inquisition forces would be leaving to secure that hold into something more permanent within the next few days, following the promise of a potential ally, much-needed resources, and confirmed sightings of demons.

Obviously, the journey would involve closing multiple rifts in the interest of aiding civilians (and damage control). And of course, Lavellan would need to make a public appearance doing just that - they would be part of a forward party for that purpose, which he would be thanked if he could be convinced to join, as he, Varric, and Seeker Pentaghast herself would be the most efficient combatants to accompany them, as they had done in the wake of the Conclave.

"I see," said Solas, thinking of the nugskin, the ever expanding requisitions list, the swelling number of intelligent black fowl he'd seen swooping low over the Chantry, and already considering what other matters might need attending during that trip.

The Hinterlands were close enough to the Wilds that it was common stalking ground for multiple Dalish clans. There would be several items of note that could merit looking into, as long as doing so did not interfere with the Inquisition's priorities. The rifts were a major one: closing them would bring reputation, and Power in the form of public opinion.

The Game was already on.

"I will go," he decided. If the Seeker was surprised that he made his choice so quickly, she did not show it. Maybe she had expected him to go; but she had asked anyway, and that was something to appreciate. "Thank you."

"We will depart within three days," said the warrior, with a nod, and he resumed his measured gait toward the other side of the lake.

Or - he would have, if Lavellan had not appeared in his path at the very edge of camp. They both started - he because he had not been paying attention, and the other because they had, but hadn't been expecting him.

A moment later, Lavellan's jaw worked. "Solas."

He opened his mouth.

"Herald, I forgot to mention - ah," interrupted another voice - south Ferelden, with a Marcher lilt. Solas adjusted his greeting to accommodate.

"Good afternoon, Commander," he said. And then, just as pleasantly, "Herald."

"Just Cullen, if you wouldn't mind," the Fereldan said, but Solas caught the flicker in his eyes - the discreet head-to-toe he received on the other side of that smile was incredibly typical. He was an apostate, and the Commander was a templar - no matter how long ago he'd left their ranks. "I believe this is the first opportunity I've had to introduce myself properly. Something that should have been done earlier, I'll admit. From what I hear, your expertise has been invaluable."

"Yes," Solas agreed, frankly. Lavellan gave him a look, briefly out of the corner of their eye, that he ignored. "Thank you. I am Solas, as you must already know."

"Yes, our resident Fade expert," the man replied. "I can't imagine how you manage to get your information. You… study the Fade, by going into it, am I correct? That seems... rather dangerous." He chuckled, and Solas smiled, faintly.

Typical, he thought again. "The pursuit of knowledge usually is. The Fade is familiar to me. I have spent a long time studying it. It is not as harrowing as most might presume." At this Cullen paused, Lavellan's look turned into an outright stare, and Solas coughed, lightly. "Ah. I did not mean…"

A disbelieving snort escaped Lavellan's mouth, saving him from going on. "_Harrowing'._ Really?"

"Pun unintended?" the Commander asked, graciously, after a moment.

"Unfortunately." Solas pressed his lips into a line. But it was a faintly amused sort of line. "You are familiar with the harrowing?" he said, curious.

Quite obviously, said the line of the Commander's brow, but he turned to the other elf in present company. "I think that question is meant for you, Herald."

Lavellan blinked. "Oh." There was a pause, bordering on uncomfortable, before they chose their words. "I... wasn't. I asked the Seeker about it earlier. And the Commander. Just now."

"Ah."

The Commander smiled. "Cullen, Herald. And not a few questions about the Templars as well," he said, scratching a brow with an idle finger. "Good questions. I think I've learned as much about your people as you have about the Circle and the Order, to be honest."

_Your people._ Solas did not react, but the Herald's smile twisted around their reply. "Thank you, I suppose."

Privately, he wondered if Lavellan had not spoken with anyone else. Chief among the new Inquisition's advisers was the Nightingale - theirs was the insight of an Orlesian, a bard-turned-spymaster, and a rogue involved with the eclectic group that ended the Fifth Blight in Ferelden, no less. The Ambassador was likewise of an interesting background - how _did_ an Antivan noblewoman become such an invaluable asset to Orlais? - but her experiences were subject to her diplomat's standard filters in the telling.

They had sought out a Seeker and an (ex-)Templar. Questions for those that led the organization they were tied to. Professions aside, Cassandra Pentaghast and Cullen Rutherford were the most likely to answer frankly - and more importantly, _personally -_ about their lives, and Lavellan had not only seen it, but also begun to capitalize on it.

It was a start.

"There is a young woman," he said, "in Haven. She was a circle mage that fled after the war broke out. Her perspective may be useful to you." Lavellan did not appear offended by his speaking, so he went on. "I believe she uses her talents researching demons...?"

"You mean Minaeve," supplied Lavellan. Their expression went a touch... quiet. "We've met."

Minaeve, he knew, preferred the Circle to her elven heritage. Alas; this was exactly what came of assisting the Chantry. Lavellan had too much to lose to be hindered by anything more than their own inherent bias, let alone those of a centuries-old religious agenda. Unfortunate.

"I see," he replied.

Lavellan deigned not to speak further, so Cullen did. "Has Cassandra spoken with you?" he asked, and Solas affirmed. "Ah, good. Then you will be joining her into the Hinterlands? As I understand it, there will be no shortage of incidents to address. Reports of demons have been astonishingly many. As if we needed more cause for concern," he added, ruefully.

"I will," he replied carefully, "be assisting in the closing of rifts, among other things. I imagine it will put the spirits at ease once it is done. It is rather unpleasant for all involved."

"Ha," said Cullen. "That's one way of putting it."

"So you _are_ going." Lavellan pinned him with an expression he wasn't entirely sure what to make of.

"...Yes." He pulled the end of his staff from the snow, where it had begun to sink down in the absence of his notice, and settled its weight in his hand again. "If only to assist where I can. It would be counterproductive to stay where I could not."

A wry look crossed the Commander's face, and his fingers flexed where they lay over his sword. "Maker. Let's hope nothing blows up in our faces. Though after everything that's happened, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if at least one other thing did."

It was a good thing Solas was predisposed to composure, or he might have laughed inappropriately.

Which he was trying to avoid doing.

* * *

"On your left!"

Smoke grenades went off to his right. Lavellan yelped involuntarily and Solas grit his teeth, weaving another barrier to bolster their defense against the templar's heavy blows; the warrior's tall shield was an unwelcome obstacle, deflecting all of his minor offensive spells into the surrounding brush - or at other members of the Inquisition, resulting in indirect friendly fire. It was a far cry from the efficiency they had managed at Haven.

He'd learned quickly to redirect his focus to defensive and disabling maneuvers once the rebel mages had fallen, leaving their party with only templars armed with deflective plate armor, anti-magic shields, anti-mage abilities...

Frustration ran all around.

Varric pat furiously on his shirt collar with one hand. The tiny flame went out in a curl of smoke. "Not that left, your other left!"

The Seeker growled. "Oh, for the love of—"

The templar's next downswing glanced off her shield. Her counterattack stabbed through empty air as the man twisted away from the blade, bringing his own weapon around to thrust where she left herself vulnerable - Lavellan leapt out of shadows at the same time, dagger angled for the joint of his elbow.

It missed. The knife-edge scraped harmlessly against his vambrace with a harsh sound. The templar threw his arm out, and the elf hit the ground with a grunt; before their attention returned from the fallen rogue the Seeker closed the distance, sword arm poised to smash a heavy pommel into the helm—

A flash of metal was all the warning she was given, but it was enough. Without losing momentum she pivoted on one heel to jut the edge of her shield directly into the nose of a different enemy soldier, a templar hunter - causing him to drop their poison-tipped blade. Three iron-tipped arrows courtesy of Inquisition scouts buried deep into the fallen foe's hamstring, back, and left shoulder.

He did not get up again. The Seeker stabbed down, and his grasping arms stilled. The remaining templar rounded on her fully as she straightened.

Solas looked back. Lavellan had vanished again, in true Dalish fashion.

Seeker Pentaghast's barrier still held, so he began weaving a spell of Winter. He spied Varric inching slowly into the templar's blind side, crossbow trained; the Herald he glimpsed in fractions, flitting anxiously between the Seeker and the remaining skirmishes that dotted the fields, waiting for an opening that would not put them in the crossbow's line of fire. Solas felt his magic temper, seconds from completing its pattern.

So did the templar.

Warily, their opponent's gaze shifted between the party members. There was a pause in which Solas knew that the man had realized he was pinned.

Sure enough: the soldier's back bowed, shield drooping low to the ground. Was it over?

No. He felt it like a tang in the wind and in the back of his throat even before the Seeker's voice rang clear: "Look out! It's a Holy— "

"_Shit,_" Varric cursed.

There was no time to do anything but brace himself before it hit. He staggered, spell ripped out of him - motes of power dissolving into nothing as his connection to the Fade severed instantaneously. Around him the remains of his barrier faltered, and winked out of existence.

He fell.

Lights danced before his eyelids and nausea rose in his gut, his body physically unable to make sense the sudden emptiness in his mind where the Fade should have been. He had enough presence of mind to brace most of his weight against his staff, preventing an ungainly crash to to the ground. The ground heaved under his feet.

Instinctively, he felt for the Fade. He could not find it - as he expected - but even so a stab of fear found its way into his chest, somehow. He felt for the Veil in the next second, before he could stop himself - and found _that_, but barely. What was supposed to be a divide between worlds felt more as if it were a seamless border; a hard edge. As if the world began and ended in one dimension, and whatever was supposed to have been beyond it was gone.

It was less like the Fade was cut off from him, and more like the Fade had simply ceased to exist in tandem with reality.

His heart hammered within his chest. Mocking in its solidness.

So this was the power the Chantry leashed their mages with. The physical disorientation alone was enough to throw anyone, he thought; but compounding it with the total absence of his magic, and then the nature of how it was denied to him, added a second, more sinister debilitation - in the form of a doubt, a crawling fear, that settled into the pit of his lungs.

Fear that his magic would not return. Fear that it had been an illusion to begin with. Fear that it had never been there from the beginning, that reality was all there had ever been, no matter how absurd it was to hear the thought cross a mind that had lived and seen evidence against it for as long as he had been alive -

No. Enough. He rallied his thoughts around a single point, and dislodged the root of the panic.

The Fade was the only place left in this world still tangible to him.

As powerful as it was, a smite was still only a temporary measure against mages. He could make use of this. His power was still little, so soon after waking; he might never have gained this experience otherwise, and a trading knowledge for something as superficial as a dent in his pride was never a terrible bargain. There was a little shame in realizing how utterly weak he still was, crawled up a little voice unbidden, but he ignored it and focused on mastering his eyesight again. His hands currently appeared to have eight and a half fingers each.

Steadily, he reminded himself to breathe. He found himself still upright - by sheer force of will, clinging to his staff. Eventually - slowly - the weave of reality began to loosen again, allowing the other side through.

But not quickly enough.

Distantly, he heard the twang of a crossbow bolt being loosed. Varric, probably, pressing his advantage. Gritting his teeth, he grasped at his senses; there were still enemies about, and he was a magicless mage on one knee in the middle of a battlefield. Easy prey for anyone with two eyes and a sharp object—

The row of ice mines he'd lain to cover his back went off, the aftershock washing over him like a tide.

A clash of blades rang too close to his ear.

Instinctively, he recoiled; a whiff of displaced air chased his steps, stumbling him backward. An attacker. Unable to draw on the Fade - his magic returned, but in a trickle - he lashed out with his staff, and connected the bludgeon end of his weapon with something that let out a heavy grunt. Before he could turn to look another assailant slammed against him bodily, knocking the both of them to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

His hands were out and grasping before either of them could recover. One of his hands found the material of their coat and seized it, willing ice to burn where he could not light a fire, until he heard: "Fenhedis lasa, fucking- Let _go_ of me!" came the snap, in a marginally panicked tone.

Lavellan threw off his grip themselves, impatiently, before he could begin to let go, their breath a pained hiss as a knife appeared in their other hand. Spirit energy rippled in thin a thin shell over their person - a barrier, from his last cast. They had been out of the smite's range when it hit, he realized.

He staggered to his feet.

Three lengths away, a templar knight yanked a heavy weapon from the ground. An enormous axe that cleaved through force, rather than cut. The swinging weapon from moments ago.

If not for Lavellan's barrier...

"Sorry," they bit out, giving him the distinct impression they were not sorry in the least. He moved back a few steps, a short distance - and they matched it, with their back to him. So it had been a deliberate choice to save him.

He could feel the magic that fed their protective armor weakening with each heartbeat.

They glanced over their shoulder. "I can't get past their armor." Their words were hurried, all in one breath. "Can you cast?"

He shook his head, and thankfully his vision did not double again. Not yet. His connection to the Fade, while growing stronger, was not stable enough to reliably cast anything yet. They made an aggravated noise in the back of their throat and subtly adjusted their stance.

The templar stalked closer. From this distance Solas could see the clear limp in his gait. One side of that heavy templar armor had been cut away at the leathers, the chainmail underneath blooming with blood around crossbow bolts and arrows. At the bodies littered in this reaver's wake, his lips thinned. Blood spilled, from all of them, freely into the ground. Death poured into the soil and through the Veil. It tugged at him, insistently, vying for the hollow space where his magic still could not fully reach him. He tuned it out. Using blood would only impede him further from the Beyond.

More arrows, courtesy of the remaining Inquisition archers, struck through their final adversary's exposed chest - but the dying man staggered forward, despite nearing the threshold to death.

People were always most dangerous when they had nothing left to lose.

Lavellan was nearing the end of their patience. Solas felt for his magic, and found only puddles in his reserves yet.

"Ma halam, shem," Lavellan growled, and darted forward before he could stop them. No!

The axe arced up. "Die," the templar spat, refusing to fall. "Apostates!"

In the blink of an eye Lavellan slipped inside the weapon's reach, the thin dagger in their fist aimed for the space under the man's helmet - and their barrier blinked out.

Distantly, Varric's crossbow fired.

The Fade...

The Fade returned to him.

"No," said Solas, grimacing; and _pulled._

Winter swirled wildly around the arm he slashed through the air, showing none of the finesse of organized runes - the groan of ice erupting out of the ground tore through the templar's wet scream like so many lances through damp paper. He blinked, and recognized another noise in the cacophony above the roaring of his pulse.

Lavellan cried out. It was a short, aborted sound.

There was no mistaking the color of blood as it dripped from their brow and splashed over their leathers, flicked into the dirt when they recoiled. Solas looked, and guessed: a long gash through their temple - close to the skull, if the rate of bleeding were any indication. How?

A crossbow bolt was embedded into the knight's throat, next to the dagger still in their fist.

The Herald stumbled back on dazed legs, leaving their blade behind. The hand wavered up to hover over their head instead, trying to feel the cut, to stem the flow of blood. But their limbs were shaking.

The templar exhaled once, twice, tiny puffs of visible breath... and fell limp. A cage of ice was all that kept him from falling to the ground.

Lavellan had no such luck.

"_No!_"

The Seeker rushed to their side. Abandoned her blade in the back of a straggler, for there were no enemies left to challenge her as she moved.

Solas - forced himself into motion. Letting his staff fall to the side, he swept toward the injury, arms already outstretched; Lavellan had begun to sit up by the time he reached them, and fought him when he smacked their blood-slicked hands away from their head. They recoiled from him, half-unconsciously, and opened their mouth.

"Don't—"

"_Don't move_," he snapped, but forced himself to pause; his hands retreated, briefly, until he saw their eyes clear, and saw them nod in a shallow jerk of their head. He out his hands on the wound again.

Not one laceration, but two. Running parallel just above and below an eyebrow. Courtesy of - what appeared to be - a broadhead crossbow bolt. They were lucky the arrowhead had not hit them full-on. He looked critically at the placement of the injury; a few measurements askew, and the Herald might have lost an eye.

But he did not voice that observation. Using one hand to press the edges of the split skin together while the other reached for a potion, he ordered them to still. "Stop frowning!" he demanded. The force of their scowl was pulling at the cuts. Closing one of them simply opened the other; there was no way to hold it fully together without relaxing the face.

The eye under his palm cracked open to glare at him.

"Please," he deadpanned, a touch impatiently.

Their jaw flexed. The eye fell shut, then opened again - both of their eyes, now, and the tension began to leave their brow in degrees, though the rest of their body remained strained. Solas felt more than heard their throat work as they swallowed (their whole head moved with the effort), and didn't need to look to knew the tendons of their neck were jumping. Under the pressure of his fingers, the cuts inched steadily closed.

Hair clung to their forehead, limp with sweat and blood. He pushed it back with his other hand - too easily, for none of it stuck to the wound. After that it was simple to deduce why the flesh wept so freely: there was a toxin. One that prevented the body from stopping the severed veins.

Varric came to a stop beside the Seeker, kicking through a pile of alternately burning and frozen debris to get to the two elves. His face was pale. "Shit. You alright, kid?"

They couldn't look at him, not at the angle they held their head. "F... fine. I'm fine." A pause. "It burns."

The dwarf grimaced.

"Blood loss. They will probably go into," he began to say - just as Lavellan began to tremble, and he abandoned finishing the sentence for holding the wound closed more firmly.

Their expression crumbled. The skin of their brow pulled, agitating the tear; but before he could order them to stop, it smoothed over again, frustration and anger muffled under a mask of calm. Their distress retreated to the very corners of their eyes and mouth.

He watched as Lavellan stared a moment, vacantly, at their hands, then closed them into deliberate fists.

A slow inhale, through the nose. Then a longer, more controlled exhale, deflating through their mouth. Another inhale. Another exhale. Slowly, the white of their knuckles faded.

Exercises, to control the breath. A self-calming technique. They were used to this, he thought. Used to combating this sort of panic. And used to the panic itself - a delayed consequence of trauma from the explosion that destroyed the Temple? Or from before?

Now was not the time. A second, more hurried one-handed rifle through his various pockets again revealed nothing of use. Displeased, he turned to the others. "I am out of healing draughts."

"That, I have," said the dwarf, before the Seeker could reply, and reached into the breast of his coat. "And also, this."

A small container of paste. He held the wound still while it was applied in a thin layer, to the gash. Lavellan tensed, but otherwise remained silent, and took the healing potion that the Seeker put into their hands.

"An antidote?" Solas asked, inspecting the ointment.

"Essentially. Wouldn't be a proper rogue without one, would I?" Varric grinned, though was drawn around the ends.

The Seeker inhaled, sharply. "Poison? You _poisoned_ the Herald?" she repeated, in an equally incredulous and horrified voice.

"I may have panicked," was Varric's clipped reply - but luckily neither were up for an argument on the matter.

Solas leant aside a fraction, allowing Seeker Pentaghast to assess the injury herself. "Will it require stitches?" she frowned, hovering near. The arches of her brow were severe with concern. "It is a long wound, and deep. We are not far from camp. Or our destination," she added, giving their surroundings a glance.

He considered the options. "No, I do not believe so. Once the bleeding slows and the antidote has had time to work, I can attempt to heal it further."

"Can't you get the poison yourself?"

Solas looked down, at Lavellan. The question (and accompanying baleful expression) was clearly meant for him.

"...It may be possible," he heard himself say.

"Do it," they demanded. A hard swallow jarred their next words. "Your barriers are at least four meters wide. You can keep up to four of us individually shielded, even. You should know," they started to say, then quickly corrected themselves, "I mean, if you do know how. If you can." Lavellan dug their fingers into a patch of grass without looking, tiredly, clenching and unclenching their fists. "Do it," they repeated. Then, "...Please."

He hesitated.

He did know how to extract poisons. It was not uncommon knowledge; a simple enough spell, easily learned with enough patience and control, though difficult to master. But the way Lavellan wanted to pry the admission of his abilities from him unwillingly was... greatly unwelcome. Were the Dalish so proficient at magic that a mere hunter could gauge a mage's skill only by looking?

"I have always leaned better toward the defensive aspects of Spirit magic," he said, slowly - gauging. "I apologize in advance if my attempt falls short of your expectations - "

"Andraste's flaming knickers, just heal the damn kid, will you?" Varric said, throwing his hands up from where they had been resting on his hips. Solas's brow furrowed, but the Seeker, too, only looked at him expectantly.

Fine.

Solas breathed deeply, and reached for the Fade.

It answered him, of course, as it always had. He should not have felt as relieved as he did.

The spell he wove carefully, taking his time. Thin tendrils of magic drew out of his hands and into their skin, seeking the poison, following veins and muscle; Lavellan grit their teeth as the spell worked to purge, making tainted blood seep from the open wound - but when he wiped it clean this time, the fluid ran slower, closer to its proper consistency. The ointment, doing its work. Once the spell could not find any more poison, and the bleeding had largely stopped thanks to its natural devices, he moved on to the injury itself.

Light bloomed from the skin as it began to meld together; where the ends of the gash could not fully meet, he willed the body to pull the gap together, remembering how it should be. Under his fingers he felt Lavellan's eyes pinch shut. He considered leaving a scar, the healing half-done, if only to disprove the other elf's certainty in his abilities; but when the glow faded and his hands moved from the Herald's forehead, there was no sign they had ever been injured but for a few fresher streaks of blood, and the remnants of Varric's antidote.

He checked his work a second time over, then carefully released their forehead from his hold, and sighed. "You should drink the potion," he instructed, sitting back on his heels. "It will help you recover from bleeding." And the shaking, presumably.

Lavellan blinked, and put a wavering hand to the freshly healed skin.

"Are you alright?" the Seeker asked.

The elf paused significantly before answering, letting their fingers roam over the matted blood. "...Yes." And then, flatly, "I almost lost an eyebrow, didn't I."

It gave him pause. The tone was not what he had expected.

An incredulous, choked laugh leapt from the dwarf's mouth. "Oh, yeah. Very nearly," he declared, and Solas realized it then - it had been meant to put them all at ease. Lavellan sighed, obligingly relieved, as the dwarf regained some of his color. "Glad you're alright, kid."

"I'm not a," they began immediately, in the same humor - then halted. "I'm not a... kid," they tried again, pointedly refusing to look at him. Varric tilted his head, and they asked, "Can't you think of something better?"

Solas, for his part, casually uncorked a vial of lyrium.

"Is that what he calls you?" The Seeker looked between them, and Lavellan shrugged. She looked at Varric then, and made an incredibly unimpressed expression. "Hmm. That is... quite unoriginal."

Varric pulled his mouth to one side, which made him look ridiculous on top of crossing his arms. "Don't give me that. I made that up ten minutes after we all met for the first time," he defended. "We can't all be like Chuckles."

"Should I be flattered?" Solas wondered, between swallows of potion.

"Are you?" Varric raised a brow. "Well, give me some time," he said, turning back to Lavellan, "I'm sure I'll think of something that sticks just as well."

"As long as it's not '_Herald of Andraste_,'" the elf groused. "Something with less strings to dance to."

"Interesting way of putting it," said Varric.

"Being a public figure generally assumes one would have an audience to be public to," Solas demurred, standing to put the vial away. He paused, then bent to offer the Herald a hand. "But it means you will have influence where it is needed. The rebel mages and templars do not cower from each other out of respect, but they might consider making an exception for us - if you play your part convincingly enough."

"They might also consider being dead more probable," Lavellan replied, and paused. For a long moment they considered him. When they finally took his hand, they allowed themselves to be pulled up, thankfully, with a minimum of discomfort.

One side of their mouth twisted vaguely upwards. "Ma serannas." The hold on his hand went a touch more deliberate, as if in acknowledgment, then let go.

"Of course," he said. Why not.

Seeker Pentaghast sighed, from where she stood. "I would not compare the Inquisition with a _show_. Though some measure of posturing is, truthfully, advisable... No, forget what I said," said the Seeker, pinching the bridge of her nose. "With Chancellor Roderick and his ilk at our heels, it would be a miracle if they did not find a way to depose you in the public eye even if you did nothing at all. I wonder if it is even worth the trouble."

"Well, that's comforting," said Lavellan, dryly.

"Do not tell Josephine I said that," replied the Seeker, somehow making a partially self-depreciating comment sound as if it were an order, and straightened. "I will see what has become of our forces. There must be someone who can tell us where the local factions are holed away."

"We will be here," Solas assured.

Lavellan's hand came up to touch their eyebrow again, absently. "Solas. Thank you."

It did not sound ingenuine. "Of course. I was lucky your injury fell within the constraints of my ability."

Lavellan glanced at him, at that. "That's very humble of you," they said, in the way that actually meant,_ I think you're incredibly full of shit._

"Maybe," he allowed.

A dry twist, again, at one corner of their lips. Lavellan folded their arms across their chest. "I should apologize. For pushing you to heal me, earlier."

Solas waited.

"I... dislike being injured," they admitted, finally.

Solas paused again, before venturing, "That seems to be an understatement." Which really actually meant, _The sentiment is shared._

Lavellan's smile took on a decidedly sharper edge.

"No offense, but I'm pretty sure nobody really likes being injured," Varric said, rolling his neck with an audible crack. "Unless you're one of the, uh, various people I know that _does_, so I guess I shouldn't actually have said anything." He stepped away from them with a grim smile. "Well, let me see if I can't find anything useful in this mess."

"Good luck," Lavellan said. The dwarf saluted, once, and ambled away to do his pilfering.

Inquisition soldiers had begun picking through the remains of the battle as well. Solas cast his eyes over the area. There were spells still unraveling on the field, haphazardly burning or freezing themselves out. He saw an agent kneel at the side of a fallen soldier, staining the soles of their boots with black mud. This part of the road, and the surrounding hills, were a disaster - void of its inhabitants, smoke thick in the air, former homes hollowed into standing evidence of conflict.

The sigh escaped him of its own accord. He had just helped the Herald to their feet, but now Solas wished to sit down again himself. The effort of the fight was beginning to take its toll - mostly in the form of mental fatigue, and a strain in his hands and wrists as adrenaline finally took its leave. There was an odd ringing in his ears, as well; he could not place the note. His senses prickled strangely.

He recalled the templar's smite. Reality, rendered too sharp, as if carved from stone. The loss of his magic - the sensation of it, a loss so complete he could hardly remember the feeling without disquieting himself.

Abruptly he was overcome with a powerful longing. He missed the Fade like an ache in his chest - doubly, now, even with nothing but the Veil keeping it at bay. How could anyone stand to be separated from it? It was incomprehensible.

Distantly, he thought he heard Lavellan speak. His eyes closed, then opened. The world returned to focus.

But softly.

"Yes?" he said, and saw the Herald.

They looked at him carefully, holding out a staff. His. Their hand curled around the grip carefully as not to smudge it with blood. He blinked. It was a not inexperienced hold. But it was clearly unused to staves, or weapons of that balance. Another thing learned quietly about the elf with a key in their hand.

"Yours?" they offered.

He looked at his staff.

His hand reached out, then, and took it from them. Lavellan held it in theirs a second longer, watching him, before letting him have it.

"Ma serannas," he said.

"Hamin," they replied, dropping a hand on his lower arm - not a second of hesitation wasted on wondering how, or why, he spoke the words. The contact lasted no more than a moment and then they were walking away, leaving him there.

He rotated the staff until the right end settled against the ground, and came to a reluctant realization.

In truth, he knew nothing about Lavellan at all.


End file.
